"A joke! I'll attend to any joking around here," said Butsey, with a reckless wave of his razor. "There may be a few patent, nickel-plated jokes roaming around here, soon, you hadn't thought of. Now, what did they fire you for?" "They fired me for kissing a teacher." "A teacher?" "The drawing teacher," said Stover hastily, perceiving the danger of the new assertion. The old boy looked at him hard, gave a sort of grunt and, turning his back, took up again the interrupted task of shaving. Stover, a little dismayed at his own audacity, sought to conciliate his future roommate. "Mister White, I say, where'll I stow my duds?" No answer. "I'm sorry--I didn't mean to be fresh. Which is my bureau?" The razor, suddenly extended, pointed between the windows. Stover, crestfallen, hastily sorted out the contents of his bag and silently ranged collars and neckties, waiting hopefully for a word. Suddenly he remembered the properties of the Pennsylvania Railroad and, sorting out the signs, he advanced on Butsey White, saying: "I brought these along--thought they might help decorate the room, Mr. White." Butsey White gazed at the three stolen signs and grunted a somewhat mollified approval. "Got anything else?" "A couple of sporting prints coming in the trunk, sir." "You want to get everything you can lay your hands on when you go home. Now run on down and report to Fuzzy-Wuzzy--Mr. Jenkins. He'll be waiting for you. After lunch I'll take you up to the village and fit you out." "I say, that's awfully good of you." "Oh, that's all right." "Say, I didn't mean to be fresh." "Well, you were." White, having carefully noted the ravages of the razor, turned from the looking-glass and surveyed the penitent Stover. "Well, what _did_ they fire you for?" he said point-blank. "They fired me----" began Stover slowly, and stopped. "Out with it," said Butsey militantly. But at that moment the voice of Mr. Jenkins summoned Stover below, and left the great question unanswered. III The interview with the house master was not trying. Mr. Jenkins was a short, fuzzy little man, who looked him over with nervous concern, calculating what new strain on his temper had arrived; introduced him to Mrs. Jenkins, and seized the occasion of the luncheon-bell to cut short the conversation. At lunch Stover committed an unpardonable error which only those who have suffered can understand--he sent his plate up for a second helping of prunes. "What in the name of peanuts did you do that for?" said Butsey in a whisper, while the Coffee-colored Angel jabbed him with his elbow and trod on his toes. "Now you _have_ put your foot in it!" Stover looked up to behold every countenance grim and outraged. "What's wrong?" he said in a whisper. "Wrong? Didn't you ever have prunes and skimmed milk before, thousands and thousands of times?" "Yes, but----" "You don't like 'em, do you?" "Why, I don't know." "Do you want to have them five times a week--in springtime?"